Through the Eyes of Madness
by Sparticus328
Summary: He hadn't remembered the events leading up to his fall at first. It had taken a few minutes after waking up for him to recall what had driven him to the ledge... The fall did not claim Sherlock's life as it had intended. His friends are still in danger. The difference this time around? John.
1. Prologue

**A/N: I've been sitting on this idea for a few weeks, trying to work out some details in my mind for the future of the plot. I am satisfied enough to post it, obviously. I hope you enjoy it.  
**

**A/N: If any one knows who the photographer is from the cover image, please let me know. I found the pic on Google image search and want to give the photographer appropriate credit.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock is the beautiful and brilliant re-envisioning by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat, from the exploits of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's character Sherlock Holmes. ****"The Hunting of the Snark" is a creation of Lewis Carroll (Charles Dodgson). **I own nothing. 

* * *

They hunted till darkness came on, but they found

Not a button, or feather, or mark,

By which they could tell that they stood on the ground

Where the Baker had met with the Snark.

-_The Hunting of the Snark_, Lewis Carroll

Prologue:

"You have to make him forget me." John didn't turn around. His eyes followed the tubes and wires leading from Sherlock's body to the machines around the room as they monitored his breathing, heart rate, and brain activity. The respirator flexed, forcing air into his lungs. The unnatural inflation of his chest made John's stomach turn.

The doctor presiding over Sherlock's case confirmed that Sherlock was out of danger. Medically, he could begin the recovery process as early as the end of the week. They were still concerned about the swelling of his brain from the concussion he received after the fall, but they had assured John that they would be watchful for any lasting brain damage.

"Mycroft, promise me."

The detective's brother pursed his lips, wondering where John was going with this. "There is nothing I can do that will convince him of that, John. I presume you are aware of how he considers you."

A small smile quirked the corner of John's mouth. But it faltered, his lips drawing a line across his face. "In order to keep him safe, he can't think of me. He cannot try to find me. The only way for that to work is to make him believe that I never was."

"It would break him, John."

He shook his head, thinking of the possible torture this could cause to that great mind. It would be worth it, if it would keep him alive. "Yes. I know. But you have to convince him, Mycroft. His life will depend on it."

"Very well." Mycroft nodded solemnly. "Have you everything you require?"

He thought of the storage locker outside of the city. "I will have."

"I expect you to return to him when this is accomplished, John. And apologize."

"I've a feeling an apology will not be enough." John turned around then. "Keep him secure, Mycroft. If I return and find any damage has come to him, I will not forgive you. Not like I did after your slip with Moriarty."

Mycroft tipped his head, his grief evident on his face. Mycroft apparently had not forgiven himself for that, still. "You have my word."

John took in that expression, a small part of him satisfied by Mycroft's recognition of guilt. It was his fault his brother lay in that hospital bed, the head injury requiring a medically induced coma.

"Take care of him."

John left the room then, not turning around. As the door slowly closed, Mycroft knew that if he were to step into the hall, John would already have vanished from sight.

* * *

**A/N: Well, that's just the prologue. Chapter One will be up in a few days, probably. I just need to tweak a few things. I always just need to tweak a few things it seems... Anyway, I always want to know what my readers think-so, please review!**


	2. Chapter One

**A/N: Just to clarify, in the prologue, Sherlock had already been in the hospital for a couple of months. For my purposes here, there was no trick laid out for Sherlock's survival as in the actual series (if you have not seen series 3 episode 1—go watch it now!), he actually intended to end his life when he took that step.**

**A/N: None of my Sherlock stuff has been beta'd. I have no intention to offend anyone. Please forgive any inaccuracies-let me know about them, and I will make ammends!**

**Disclaimer: The co-creators of Sherlock (BBC) Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat are owed all the credit and praise for the character developments and genius of the contemporary interpretation of the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, originally imagined by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing.**

* * *

Chapter One:

"_Sherlock."_

John? Why do you sound so far away?

"Sherlock, try to open your eyes."

Sherlock felt the muscles contract, pulling his eyelids up. The brightness of the room met his dilated pupils, making his eyelids snap closed in protection of his optical receivers.

He tried again, taking in more information. He was in a hospital, that was obvious. He was being monitored by machines. He could feel the contact points of the sensors, see the lead wires running from under his clothing to the various devices.

Sherlock peered around the room, searching the masked faces and gloved hands for a particular match. He didn't appear to be there. But, the voice...

"Sherlock?"

The detective's eyes snapped to the doctor standing over his left side. He did not have the anatomical proportions to be John, but the voice was so similar. Sherlock stifled the sentiment of disappointment.

"As you can see, I am conscious. What do you want?" His question snapped at the doctor.

"Can you tell me the last thing you remember?"

"I can." Sherlock's response was clipped. It was a stupid question, and he was tired. Certainly he could tell, but his fatigue was overshadowing his limited patience.

The rest of the medical team left the room. Efficient, Sherlock thought. The patient had woken up and was reacting well. They were no longer required.

The doctor seemingly waited for Sherlock to continue. When he didn't, the doctor prompted patiently. He had been warned that his patient may be difficult. It had been a character trait. But, he had to be cautious because of the severity of his trauma. "Please continue, then. Tell me the last thing you remember."

The response his body provided was a deep throbbing inside his skull. When he shifted to lessen the ache, bandages pulled against the cotton of the bed covers. Irritability, fatigue, sensitivity to light, constant headache... If he had correctly analyzed his symptoms, he had a concussion. Sherlock would have preferred not communicating with the people in the hospital, but he reasoned that his head injury required the verbal checks.

Sherlock nodded, the throbbing in his head increased with the slight motion. His vision wobbled in dizziness—he added vertigo to the list of his side effects. He closed his eyes momentarily, raising a hand to steady his head, regaining his composure.

His memory was hazy. "The rooftop of...the hospital." He searched. He knew the name of the hospital, didn't he? "Uh, Saint, something... Had gone up there to meet...criminal I was hunting. Moriarty. He sold some lie to the press... to set me up. He..." Clarity came to him, and he stiffened. "In the end, I didn't have a choice. It was the only way to save John."

"What was?"

"Falling." Sherlock swallowed, new realizations connecting in his injured brain. "I'm alive... No... Not good at all. Where is John? Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade?" His heart rate increased, his breathing unsteady. Sherlock searched the room again, desperate. Were they able, his friends would be there with him. Wouldn't they? He caught sight of a flapping trench coat and a distinctive umbrella dangling from the crook of an arm. "MYCROFT!"

Sherlock watched as Mycroft hastily disconnected his phone call and entered the room. "Sherlock, that was an important call... Now, what is so urgent?"

"Where is John?"

The desperation in Sherlock's voice concerned Mycroft. "John who, Sherlock? There are quite a number of people with that given name."

"John, Mycroft. My John. John Watson!" Sherlock cleared his throat. His speech was bordering on panic. That was very not like him.

Mycroft stared concernedly at his brother. "There is no one connected to you named John Watson."

"Of course there is. He's my flatmate, has been for over two years now. He's been assisting me on cases with Lestrade... Fetch me a computer, would you. I assume this hospital is equipped with wireless internet."

"Certainly, but Sherlock-"

"I can prove it. I'll show you the blog that John's been writing. He's been keeping a horrendous, overly romanticized record of our cases."

Mycroft sighed, leveling a disapproving look at his brother.

"I do not advise it, Mr. Holmes. You are still in a state of neurological recovery."

The gentle voice of the doctor was so like John's that Sherlock had to check again that his friend was not standing by his bedside. No. This man had dark hair, a long face, and a thin nose. Those features could not be more opposite.

"It's a bump on the head. Honestly, you'd think my skull had been cracked open."

Silence met his ears at this suggestion.

"What?"

Mycroft answered patiently, reminding himself that Sherlock was not at the top of his game. "It was a thirty-foot fall, Sherlock. Your skull _was_ split. Why do you suppose you have a bandage on your head?"

Sherlock felt the cushioning of the bandage around his skull. It surrounded his head entirely, covering up over the crown. "Cranial repair."

"Yes."

"I miscalculated, then." Sherlock pursed his lips in thought. "Did you recover my phone?"

The doctor turned to a side table where a bag sat. "Personal affects are there for you. You will probably want to throw out the coat and scarf. They were quite covered in blood. Washing will not do much to take that out."

Sherlock waved away that thought. He obviously had more than one coat and he could always borrow one of John's scarves. "I am perfectly fine to use a computer. There are no studies of brain injuries impeding the operation of computer research. Neither are there studies that prove computer research disrupts healing brain injuries."

The doctor shrugged, leaving the decision with Mycroft.

"I'll just be a moment." The politician ducked back out to the hall.

* * *

As soon as the door closed, Mycroft turned to his aide. She pocketed her phone and handed over the laptop.

Mycroft took the device. By appearance it was the same computer that Sherlock kept in his flat. "Is it clean?"

Anthea glanced into the hospital room. She noted Sherlock's watchful stare, and was aware of his talents. She turned angling her face away from his vision. They would be lost if he could read her lips. "Yes, sir. The hard drive has been mimicked and replaced. Any data concerning that person is no longer accessible."

"The websites?"

"Shut down and appropriately revised."

"Thank you, Anthea."

"The cleaning crew is still at the flat, sir. It may take a few days to expunge everything. Two years is a long time..."

"I am aware. Sherlock will not be released from the hospital for several days at least. They will have more than enough time. Just be sure they get everything."

* * *

Mycroft returned to the hospital room, holding out the laptop. "I had Anthea take the liberty to stop by your flat and pick up a few things. I had a suspicion that you would be raring to be after another case, even though you've only just woken from a medically induced coma," there was sarcasm lacing his words, "so, I had her retrieve this as well."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at his brother. Something about this didn't seem right. He had too much experience with Mycroft trying to pull one over on him—his entire childhood, actually. He could tell that his brother was not being completely forthcoming. He let it go for the moment. His arms raised and waving for the computer. "Fine, just give it here."

He logged on and typed in the web address. He would never admit it to John, but one of his favorite pursuits was reading John's interpretation of their cases. He valued John's perspective. And watching him fluster as he criticized his writing style was always fun. Sherlock smiled at the thought.

The smile froze on his face.

Sherlock stared at the error on the screen, the smile falling. _User profile ID not recognized._ His stomach twisted. He had seen John typing on this blog, editing, posting pictures, almost daily. "That's not possible. A website doesn't just disappear. Mycroft. Are you behind this? Did you shut down his blog? The writing was atrocious, I grant you. But it was John's blog!"

"I tried to tell you, Sherlock. There is no John Watson."

"Really." Sherlock typed quickly, pulling up the military service recognition website. "Explain this, then." He turned the computer around for Mycroft to read."

" 'Watson, John H. Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers... Fallen in Service 12th October 2009, Afghanistan.' What about it?"

"What? Fallen!?" Sherlock turned the computer back around, his eyes ground into the data on the screen. He checked the information about the website. The website had been updated four months ago, but it had been created almost three years prior. There was a picture and a list of his commendations, including a couple awarded posthumously.

It seemed credible...

He opened the link for contact information, and was directed to a military contact website which claimed it would forward notes of condolence to the family. The twisting in his stomach rose up toward his lungs. His hands went limp on the keys.

Mycroft removed the laptop from Sherlock's hands. "Brother. Will you concede that it is possible you are confused? You have been in a medically induced coma. Perhaps your subconscious mind created this John character? Supplied a distraction of sorts while you were unconscious. When do you first remember having met John?"

Sherlock swallowed. They were trying to convince him that John was a fabrication. They were doing a very thorough job of deleting any evidence of him. He had to get home soon. He had to make sure. "How long have I been in the hospital?"

"Nearly two months. You didn't answer me, Sherlock."

The detective sighed. "I met John in the labs at Saint Bart's two years ago, this past April. Mike Stamford introduced us." Sherlock slouched back into bed. "I think I should rest now. Brain injury and all."

Mycroft acceded and left the room. It didn't go unnoticed that Sherlock had no trouble remembering the name of the hospital this time around.

The doctor stood over Sherlock a moment longer. "We'll have to check on you through the night. I'm afraid you won't get a lot of sleep." Sherlock didn't respond. The doctor recorded his statistics and also left the room.

When the door closed, Sherlock spoke to the empty room. "Where have you gone, John?"

* * *

**A/N: Yeah, so I couldn't wait 'a couple of days' to offer up Chapter One. I hope you enjoyed it! And don't forget to review!**


	3. Chapter Two

******A/N: The plan had been to post this up on Monday. But, as always, I felt the need to make some adjustments. Adjustments that took up more time than I expected. (-.-) Thankfully, my good friend koram852 kept me from pulling my hair out... Now, please read and enjoy. And review!**

******A/N: I say again, none of my Sherlock stuff has been beta'd. Let me know if anything seems off, and I will fix!**

******Special Shout-Out to "K": Thank you for your review! I was a little discouraged when all saw was one. But it was an encouraging one!**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock the BBC series was created by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. The character was created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing.**

* * *

Chapter Two:

John entered the pub, nodding to the girl behind the counter. She flicked her eyes up the stairs once, looking back to John in question. He tipped his head in thanks, catching the key she tossed across to him.

He ascended the stairs, the heavy bag on his shoulder, pulling his footsteps to the side. He leaned on the banister to steady himself.

At the top of the stairs, John turned down a short hall. At the second door on the left, he stopped and used the key. There were only two flats above the pub, and one small laundry room. One of the flats belonged to the owner, the sister of an old mate from the army.

William Morstan, formally retired from service, now worked in private security. John had called him on a whim, relying on their connection during the old days. He needed a place to stay that could not be traced to his life at Baker Street. He knew that if anyone could come through for him, Bill would.

Only a few tactful questions were asked—filling in details on what John was looking for. Bill knew better than to dig. By the end of their conversation, he had responded by offering one of the two flats for rent above his sister's pub.

John had gratefully agreed to meet the girl about the flat, and hoped he wouldn't be reigning danger on her if she let him rent.

* * *

_John turned up at the pub just as the after-work patrons filed in through the door. He stood in their midst for a moment, not quite sure where the girl was._

"_Captain Watson," a voice pulled his attention. She was standing behind the bar, a thin towel draped over one shoulder. _

_Mary, he reminded himself. Her name was Mary. He moved closer to the bar, keeping his voice low, "John, please. I'm not in the army anymore." John held out his hand. _

_She took the proffered hand confidently and shook it once, solidly. She paused, looking at him, his warm hand still held in hers. She noticed the shadows behind his eyes. "My brother says that once a man has been in the army, he never really leaves it." She smiled kindly at him._

_John watched her carefully. It was a knowing smile. She wouldn't be fooled. Even now he was fighting a war, and she knew it. But it didn't seem to bother her._

_He returned the smile, a bit stiffly. "That's true enough." He dropped his hand and sat back on a stool. He hoped they wouldn't have their meeting actually in the pub, but if she was working, they couldn't really help that._

"_Willy told me you were looking for a place," she began, tapping a coworker on the shoulder. The man was broad and very tall in contrast to her small stature. _

"_Yes," he answered, distracted. John eyed the man, he was at least as tall as Sherlock. He seemed like an alright guy, though, intimidating enough to keep unwelcome attention from his employer. _

_Mary ducked under the hinged bar extension at the side and came around to meet John. "Shall we?" she prompted. _

"_Yes," he provided distinctly. He stood up and followed her to the side stairs. As they went up, she pulled a set of keys from her pocket. "I just need a place to lay low for a while. I hope that's not asking a lot."_

"_No. Actually, it's kind of a relief. I've been wanting to rent out the second flat, but I never really liked the people who asked about it. Always something...off about them." She shrugged, leading the way to the flat he would be occupying. _

_She opened the door to a single room flat. A bed sat against one wall in the center of the room, a rug peaking out from the edge of it. A dresser stood in the corner opposite the bed. The door to the bathroom was propped open by a simple wooden chair, with a set of towels on the seat waiting to be used._

_A square table was placed to the far right of the room, nestled between two windows, operating as both dining area and desk. The setting was so reminiscent of the life he was about to leave behind that his throat closed up a little. He coughed to dispel the discomfort._

"_Now, I don't want to be presumptuous, but I feel I should mention this: I don't mind social callers, but I do prefer knowing who is coming and going in my home."_

_He looked at her questioningly._

"_Oh, sorry. I didn't realize Willy didn't tell you. I live in the other flat." She shrugged. "A convenience of owning the pub, I suppose." _

_John smiled. "No, I can appreciate that... Rest assured, Miss Morstan, I have no intention of inviting anyone home." John continued, feigning interest in her business, "What can you tell me about the clientele at the pub?"_

"_Please, call me Mary." She pulled her hands up to rest on her hips. The look they exchanged told John he wasn't fooling her. "My brother didn't elaborate on the business you were in, John. But if you are concerned about interruptions or invasion of privacy, don't be. It's a small pub and my guests do not tend to make a lot of noise—except for Sundays when the game is on. The lads tend to get a little mouthy then. All of them are regulars, and I can tell when someone new has been hanging around." _

"_Perfectly agreeable, then." John wondered at her. She was obviously aware that he was involved in some kind of dangerous work...Bill had probably cautioned her, given what they had done in the service. And yet, she was not skittish of it. She seemed to want to chase after it and confront it head-on. _

_He smiled. She was just like him... and in that way, just like Sherlock. _

* * *

John couldn't have been happier when they had agreed on their arrangement. As it was, he was too tired to try to consider another location, and the small room was all he needed. He shrugged off the weight of the bag, abandoning it by the bolted door and dropped to the bed.

He felt hollow. And he knew exactly why. From the moment he stepped out of that hospital room, he knew what he had to do. Logically, it was the only thing he could do. But, he felt torn. He should be there. He should be the one to watch over Sherlock, to be there when he opened his eyes...

He pulled out the prepaid phone and dialed the familiar number. "Mycroft. How is he?"

"Hold, please." John heard the noise from the hospital. A door closed. Then the older Holmes was there again. "They're waking him up. The swelling went down over the last few days, and doctors' decided they would check his responses."

John nodded. "Good, right on time."

"John, are you still sure about this? It could take some work, but Sherlock can be rational."

"Logical, Mycroft. Not rational. He can accept the truth. But he cannot be patient, and he is too reckless to stay out of harm's way. You know he won't think of his own safety." John thought back to the recording he had heard from Sherlock's phone, the threat that had been made against the lives of Sherlock's friends. "You know as well as I do that he would bide his time, waiting until no one suspected he would take action. And then, he would do something stupid. Like meet a criminal mastermind and go to his death."

"Sherlock never repeats his mistakes."

"All that means is he won't get caught jumping from a rooftop again. That doesn't mean he wouldn't take a pill, or jump into the line of fire, or hang himself if that meant saving one of us. You know he would do that."

"My brother does not give way to sentiment."

"You say so." John's fist landed hard on the coil-spring mattress beside him. "You forget, Mycroft, that he jumped from that ledge to save me. What would you call that?"

"John-"

"I won't take the chance, Mycroft. _I_ am ending this."

"John, I-"

_MYCROFT!_

John nearly dropped the phone at the shout. It was Sherlock's voice. His very frightened and confused voice. John's chest tightened.

"John, I'm sorry."

"Go. Make sure he's okay. And remember-"

"I know. I did promise, after all."

John stared at his phone, the blinking face indicating how long their conversation had lasted. He dropped the phone beside him and lay back on the bed. As he lay there, staring at the cracked and water-stained ceiling, John collected his thoughts. When he had separated his emotions from the task at hand, he sat up and retrieved the bag.

* * *

Mycroft stood outside the hospital room, his feet remarkably still considering the churning of his mind.

The concussion had affected Sherlock's recall. That much was obvious from the responses he had given the doctor. But where names of places and people took him a few minutes to pull out and contained a lilt of question, every reference he had given about John was absolute, unwavering fact.

That was a complication.

Mycroft watched his brother lay with his eyes open staring at the ceiling. Sherlock was not sleeping. He had retreated to his mind palace. Sherlock logged information in his brain like a complex file system. All of it accessible. Even if the pathways had been damaged, they would reestablish themselves with a little work.

He was relieved that the human brain knew how to repair itself. His brother would be able to process and deduce as he had before. The doctor estimated a month of therapy, just to be on the safe side.

The problem with his recovery was not the healing, but the part that did not have to be healed. John Watson was as intact in Sherlock's mind as he had ever been. The mere suggestion that John had been a fiction had thrown red flags for his brother, he could see that clearly enough.

They had no way to delete that log without damaging him. Even if... No. John would kill him—actual murder would occur. No procedures, then. There were medications, anti-psychotics that caused forms of memory loss. But, he hated the idea of doing that to his brother.

There was always emotional damage. They could convince him that John had tired of the life-threatening situations and the running around solving cases that he had no personal investment in anymore. It would hurt him horribly, but Sherlock may just voluntarily delete John from his own memory at that point.

And then what when John returned?

For a moment, Mycroft thought of the absent doctor. Had it even been a week since he left? And why had he commissioned Mycroft with the responsibility of making Sherlock forget him? To protect him, that's what he'd said. Though, something in John's attitude and behavior did not sit well with him. What exactly was John going to do?

He didn't have to guess, really. He knew, without accessing any of his privileged information that John Watson was going to terminate the threat on Sherlock's life. And Sherlock, the evidence lay before him, had tried to terminate himself to end the threat on John's. Both of them, still so loyal.

No, Mycroft decided. They could not make John's lack of existence permanent. They would try the psychological approach first.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! Now, I am off to work on Chapter Three.  
**

**Don't forget to review!**


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N: This chapter is all about Sherlock. I had a majority of it already written—it just took me a couple of days to adjust it to my satisfaction. Read and enjoy! (And as always, I appreciate reviews!)**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and the BBC. I own nothing.**

* * *

Chapter Three:

"Mr. Holmes, if I recall, you had mentioned your brother was living alone." The psychologist looked at the older Holmes expectantly. Mycroft lifted his chin in affirmation.

Sherlock picked at his fingernails, bored with the line of discussion-again. This was the third visit to the therapist since he had woken. This session was proving to be just as obnoxiously unhelpful as the two previous.

He flicked a speck of grime out. How had he gotten sediment under the third nail of his left hand? _I haven't been to the river... _ He thought, barely attending to the comments of the psychologist.

So far, he had identified plant fertilizer from the orchid Molly brought, dead skin flaked during a handshake with his doctor, and graphite shavings from the pencil at the reception desk where he signed in for this awful appointment. But the river...?

The psychologist turned to his patient, "Did you have many friends?"

Sherlock glanced to the therapist, noting he had finally acknowledged who his patient was. Though, having him counsel Mycroft may not be a bad idea... "I-"

"He didn't have any friends, so to speak." Mycroft interjected. "Work colleagues, I suppose. You must understand, my brother's intellect is far superior to any one else, even those he worked with. He often found it tedious to interact with anyone on any level beyond absolute necessity."

"I am right here." Sherlock crossed his arms. "And John was all the human interaction I required," he mumbled. He knew Mycroft had heard the utterance, but other than a simple flick of the eyes, he gave no reaction to the comment.

_River...river... _He pondered. Lestrade had said something about a body found on the shores of the Thames when he dropped off the card from his team. At the time, Sherlock had tucked it under the plant, aware that the well-wishes would be trite.

"When we were children, he had an imaginary friend."

"Shut up, Mycroft. Many children have an imaginary friend. Particularly children often left on their own with a shortage of school friends." Sherlock adopted a petulant glare aimed at his brother. He was more than familiar with the tactics of psychologists, but it was a field he had limited patience for—especially given the situation he was currently experiencing.

"So illusions are not foreign to him, then." The psychologist made a note on his legal pad.

"I'm not certain this can be considered a true therapy session, if my brother is providing the answers to the questions directed at me. That, then, would be termed an inaccurate test of my progress. If I am not answering the questions with my willingness and rate of development, then you are not performing your job adequately." Sherlock stood and walked toward the door. "I need not remain here. And you cannot require additional sessions. Now, if you'll excuse me, Lestrade has contaminated a crime scene."

Sherlock pulled the door open. "Good day, Mr. Sterns. Mycroft."

When the portal closed, Mycroft turned to the psychologist.

"Your brother is quite right, of course, Mr. Holmes. I cannot provide an accurate assessment of his psychological stability based on the answers provided by a family member. But you knew that. You pushed this appointment, and you pushed Sherlock." The doctor made another note. "What do you hope to accomplish?"

Mycroft stood, donned his jacket and retrieved his umbrella. "I intend to save my brother's life."

* * *

Lestrade watched the long coat of a visitor as it swirled around the legs of it's approaching owner. He thought back to the conversation he had earlier that week with Sherlock's own brother, and narrowly avoided grumbling under his breath.

_Lestrade stepped from the elevator, his visit to the hospital long overdue. He hoped Sherlock would understand the delay. With the consulting detective out of commission for the past couple of months, Scotland Yard had all they could do to keep abreast of the crime waves circulating the city. His cases rolled one to the next, with no time for breaks. He hadn't even slept in his own bed for nearly three months._

_He wiped a hand over his face, trying to rid himself of his exhaustion. Soon, he'd been assured, Sherlock would be back in form._

_As he neared the consultant's private hospital room, Mycroft Holmes met him, diverting his path to a small waiting area down the hall._

_The politician toyed with the curved handle of his umbrella as he spoke to the inspector. What he said was in every way baffling to the detective._

_"Inspector Lestrade, I require your cooperation in this matter: My brother will likely visit you the moment he is released from the hospital to manipulate you into letting him assist on a case. For his sake, I advise you to let him. However. You must say nothing of John Watson."_

_"Why?" Lestrade frowned skeptically at the older Holmes brother._

_"Because he has made it quite clear that Sherlock is to know nothing of his absence. To that end, we must operate on the supposed-belief that we know nothing of the man. His very name means nothing to us. Is that understood?"_

_"It bloody well is not. Why the hell would John ever leave Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice was filled with abject disbelief, and even anger at the suggestion John Watson would abandon any of his friends in their time of need._

_Mycroft remained silent, staring expectantly at the detective inspector. _

_Lestrade blinked at the politician, his mind whirling through the possibilities in answer to his own question. It was apparent that the other man was not about to tell him anything._

_"Oh, God," he groaned when the first thought that made any sense came to mind. "He's gone off on his own then. Off to-"_

_"It's good that you grasp the severity of the situation. Sherlock has always said you were the best that Scotland Yard had to offer. I am certainly glad that he was not misled."_

_"Jesus." Lestrade raised a hand to ruffle through his short hair. "John... He's been out of the service for nearly three years, now. Is he able to-"_

_"John is more than capable, and he has the proper motivation." Mycroft tapped the tip of the umbrella against the floor in impatience. He did not like explaining things that should be so obvious. "I would not have trusted my brother's care to him this long, otherwise." _

_Lestrade cleared his throat. "Right then. So if Sherlock mentions John, I am supposed to ...what?"_

_"I leave that choice to you, Inspector. Simply do not support his belief that John Watson has been a part of his life. For the time being, I am relying on the effects of his injury as an excuse for suggesting that he was having a kind of delusion."_

_"You want me to lie to him? Lie to Sherlock Holmes. Sir, you don't know your brother at all..."_

_Mycroft frowned at the accusation. "I know him, believe me. If you cannot lie convincingly, then avoid the matter."_

_"Ignore him, then?" Lestrade stared agape at the politician. Sherlock who could read anyone like a book... See through a lie from a hundred yards off... And craved attention for showing off his great skills... Ignore him. Right, as if that were possible._

_"Do not forget, Inspector, this is something that John has requested. Sherlock is not to become involved in his... investigation." He secured his coat and moved to the door. "Now, if you'll excuse me."_

_The detective inspector watched the older Holmes brother leave, annoyance with the man flaring up. "Pretentious prick," he exhaled. Well, if John was the one asking, and it would be for Sherlock's benefit, then he couldn't deny the request. But, damn if that wasn't going to be difficult... Sherlock was going to be insufferable without the doctor around to buffer his prickly nature._

The Detective Inspector crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the evidence board in front of him.

"Have you all lost your minds, then? I've been away a while, and you lose what little ability you had to process a crime scene without contaminating it?" Sherlock neared Lestrade with a deep frown creasing his face. He waved his get-well card in the Inspector's line of sight.

"What are you on about?" Lestrade sighed, taking the card from the consultant.

Sherlock opened the card and pointed to a smudge left along the edge. "That came from the scene, I expect. Tell me, if this division is so lax with evidence, can I assume that you have contaminated the rest of the cases you've been on while I was away by bringing in greeting cards and dragging them through samples as well?" Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, his headache growing.

_Calm down, Sherlock. _

John's patient voice sounded inside his head. He knew it had sprung up from the very evident lack of his presence. The rationalizing of the doctor was frustrating, especially when the man himself was not the one to offer it. When it was merely a conjuring of Sherlock's mind, it only served to exacerbate his already sour mood.

"I will not calm down, John. Nearly three months, I was away. I'm amazed _any_ cases have been solved."

_They solved yours, didn't they? No one's coming around to clap you in handcuffs and drag you off to jail. See? Solved._

Sherlock grumbled. He hadn't remembered the events leading up to his fall at first. It had taken a few minutes after waking for him to recall what had driven him to the ledge...the surrounding doubt, the staging of the kidnapping, how easy it had been for everyone to believe he was responsible, the threat... But it had all cleared by the time he had woken. His name was cleared, and John was missing...missing and no one professed to remember him.

"We used proper protocol for processing the scene, Sherlock. We do know about using gloves when collecting evidence." Lestrade sighed. He heard the slip, if it even had been a slip, but he ignored it.

"Someone doesn't. That smudge has clear striation of a fingerprint, Lestrade." The majority of his tirade expressed, Sherlock leaned against a desk and closed his eyes.

"So you looked over the fact that we were all signing that to wish you a safe and speedy recovery. You decided to come right down here the moment you were released and accuse us of incompetency." Lestrade confronted the detective.

_Not good, Sherlock._

Sherlock swayed a little, dizziness taking over for his headache.

Lestrade raised a hand to his shoulder to steady him. "Oi, mate, should you even be here? You just got released from the hospital. You should be at home, resting."

"I can't rest when you imbeciles can't do your jobs properly."

Lestrade listened to his complaint with concern. It wasn't one of his usual biting comments. This one fell short, and seemed more obligatory. If Lestrade could gauge him properly, his voice was low, tired, and barely masking the pain he was in.

"Come on, mate. We're gonna get you a cab." Lestrade waved aside his complaint and began steering him down the hall. "You can come back to help us fix our colossal errors and solve the case after you've been home and rested up a bit. I'm sure your doctor gave you a prescription for some very nice painkillers, too. You've had a pretty serious head injury, Sherlock. That's not something you can bounce back from quickly."

Sherlock pressed his fingertips to his temples, trying to steady the tilting of the hall. Vertigo...severe concussion. Painkillers. Doctor. John. "My doctor's not here..."

Lestrade hesitated. How was he supposed to respond to that? He grit his teeth, then chided him honestly. "Of course he's not here, Sherlock. Your doctor has a job to do."

* * *

The cab stopped at the curb, letting Sherlock out. He checked his pockets for payment, but came up empty.

"No need, sir. Your friend paid the fare." The cabbie reassured him. Sherlock vaguely remembered Lestrade handing the cabbie a collection of bills. He nodded, feeling uncomfortable with his lapse.

He put a hand to his head and stumbled to the front door of 221 Baker Street. Home.

Sherlock used the wall for support as he climbed the steps. The silence of the stairway, quieted the raging of his headache briefly and he his steps faltered less... Just how long did it take to recover from a traumatic head injury?

He rummaged through the catalog of data in his head, but found he was missing practical experience of this caliber to provide a defined estimate. His face screwed up in pain from the added mental processing. Perhaps he should have taken his dose of medicine before he left the hospital...

He reached into his coat pockets and felt for the bottle of pills. He knew he had them, Mycroft had forced them in his hand. Which pocket had he shoved them into and ignored...? He patted his chest, feeling at the inside pockets. He tipped forward, deliriously leaning his forehead against the closed door of 221B. He sighed, unable to locate them and turned the handle. He might have something in the flat that would suffice.

Sherlock stepped into the flat, slowly taking in everything. He could see that someone had been through, several someones actually. Three, no four sets of footprints in the thin layer of dust on the floor...none of whom were Mrs. Hudson. They were all flat shoes. Mrs. Hudson never wore anything but short heels.

Thank goodness, she had for once respected his request to not tidy.

Sherlock carefully analyzed the visitors by the markings they had left behind. One of them—female, based on the size of the shoe—had trouser legs trailing beside their steps from insufficient hemming, or possibly a shorter shoe than they were intended to be worn with. Another walked with a light limp, favoring the left leg—from the angle of the step, they had injured the right ankle. The two others had split at the landing, one going back through the kitchen, the other up the next flight to John's bedroom.

Disturbed by the idea that someone had been to John's room, Sherlock followed those steps. At the door he hesitated. John was always upset when Sherlock entered his bedroom. He could never identify why his presence in the room bothered the doctor. John had ranted once about personal space, but Sherlock wasn't sure that was the whole answer.

Sherlock took a breath and opened the door. The portal swung open to a vacant space. It was empty, devoid of everything. No furniture. No clothing. The stack of books that John had piled on the window sill were also gone. Even his private journal, which had been stored beneath a loose floorboard in an attempt to keep it from Sherlock's curious ventures in the room, was missing.

Sherlock's breath stopped. He grappled for the door handle and pulled the portal closed. Once the sight was blocked from his eyes, he took in a shaky breath. He backed away, taking the steps back down to the main rooms slowly.

Once back in the sitting room, Sherlock perched on the arm of the couch his arms loose by his sides. His head hurt. He wanted to sleep. He wanted John to make tea and tell him that he was clever and could sort it out.

Mrs. Hudson came bustling in then. "Oh, Sherlock, dear. I wasn't expecting you to be home until tomorrow. Mycroft said you wouldn't be released until your final visit with Doctor Sterns."

Sherlock didn't respond. His shoulders seemed to slump under their own weight.

She watched him, worriedly "Well, I'll just go and put your clean washing in your bedroom," she nodded, patting the pile in her arms.

Sherlock's eyes followed her, his focus caught on the pile of clothes. He was drawn behind her. He met her at the doorway, his hands reaching past her for the pile. He shifted his socks out of the way and fingered the soft cotton of a gray t-shirt that wasn't his.

He knew this t-shirt. He had stolen it from John. Curious, he had pulled it from the floor in the doctor's bedroom and adopted it. He'd worn it inside out for an entire day and John had never made a comment about the "borrowed" article.

His hands tightened in the fabric, holding it against his chest. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he told her sincerely.

As usual, his ill-disguised pain affected her. Her own sadness showed in the pinching of her eyebrows and the pout of her mouth. She gave Sherlock a quick hug. "I'll be back to bring your supper."

"That's not necessary, I can—"

"I will. And you will eat it, Sherlock." The firmness of her voice told him she would not take no for an answer. And it held the same authority that John had used to make him eat during cases.

His throat closed, and he hugged Mrs. Hudson tightly in return. "Thank you," he whispered to the top of her head.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. Please let me know what you thought. Reviews welcome!**


	5. Chapter Four

**A/N: I have to say it. I hit a wall of writer's block for this section. Then, part of this chapter was inspired by and written to "The Wizard" by Black Sabbath. Any guesses which part?**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the source material or the characters. Only the story.**

* * *

Chapter Four:

John tacked up a collection of maps and photographs outlining the thin blanket of details he was able to gather on Moriarty's web.

Mycroft had offered what assistance he could. As a person of some position within the British government, he could offer quite a bit of assistance. Confidential dossiers on certain persons of interest had found their way into the bag John had carried with him.

Though, as John flipped through the documents, he was far from satisfied by the information they offered. It was sparse, and barely more than he had gathered with his own network of old army friends.

After several heated phone conversations about the redacted portions of these files, Mycroft grumbled something about getting back to him and abruptly hung up.

John stared at the map. His eyes were drawn to one of the lesser markers he had identified. Mycroft didn't think there was anything more to the Jefferson Hope case than what Sherlock had uncovered during their encounter with the London cabbie.

But John wondered. Did the connection to Moriarty really end with the promise of payment?

Hope's life was forfeit. He had admitted as much, wheezing on the floor from the gunshot John had inflicted. Even if he hadn't been bleeding to death at the time, or waiting for the aneurism in his brain to burst, he swore that revealing his sponsor would be the end of him.

Something about the admission had seemed odd, even to Sherlock. John later learned from the detective that Hope was survived by his two children and an ex-wife. And that in the event of his death, a generous sum would be provided to them through a trust fund established by an unknown benefactor.

But, how had the cabbie come to meet Moriarty in the first place? Where had their connection begun? And was the death of the man really the end of that connection?

John pulled down a photo. Sherlock had plucked the picture from behind the meter in the cab while he waited for Lestrade to show up, not really having a reason to.

When the serial suicide case had closed, and the picture was no longer evidence, Sherlock had asked to have the Polaroid. A memento, he had called it at the time. The word brought a half smile to John's lips. Their first case together. And Sherlock never failed to mention that sentiment was a trait found on the losing side.

"I rather think we won that one, mate." John told the room.

And yet, John tucked the photo into a notebook, pinning it in place with a paper clip. He scrawled out a handful of bullet-pointed thoughts about the possible significance of a link.

A light tap came from the door. John frowned turning to the closed portal. He moved carefully, standing behind the door, and unbolting it. His only complaint about his out-of-the-way flat was the lack of peep-hole.

He put a hand to the knob and twisted, careful to keep his foot behind the door. He stepped back when he realized it was the woman from downstairs.

"Hi." She greeted simply, waving a tray forward, motioning for him to open the door. He smiled and moved aside, pulling the door wide for her. "I didn't see you come down for lunch, so I thought I would bring you up something."

"Jesus, what time is it?" His eyes swung to the digital clock by the bed. 3:27PM. "I hadn't even realized... Mary, you didn't have to do that..."

"And let you starve?" Mary set the tray down on the desk and picked up half of a sandwich. There were two plates with sandwiches, and two cups of steaming tea. "My brother would not thank me for that."

"I'm hardly starving." He groaned. He never thought that he would be on this side of the same old argument.

She took a bite from the sandwich, looking curiously at the wall of maps and images he was compiling. "What _is_ all this, John?"

She was examining a cluster of photos over which John had tacked a note card with a single word scrawled across the face: snipers. There were nine photos, three had their faces crossed off by black marker, two had double slash marks. The other four had threads stretching from their images to locations all around London. One, he had identified, precariously close to the pub.

He wasn't entirely sure how to respond to her query. How much could he risk telling her? He was spared having to answer by the ringing of his phone. He rolled his eyes at the noise. She smiled, acknowledging his awkward apology as he accepted the call and held the device to his ear.

After their last conversation, John didn't even offer Mycroft a greeting. Two ticks went by before Mycroft started in. "John, I have a favor to ask of you."

"Mycroft... You know I don't have that kind of time." John picked at the chips on his plate. He nibbled on a few before pushing the plate away.

Mary stared at the plate, squinted at John and pointedly shoved the plate back toward him. He sighed, and let out a single chuckle of amusement.

"Doctor Watson, I am not asking you to save the government. I am asking if you will assist MI-6 and continue to do what you are doing. The only difference in your work will be that you will have the full resources of the Intelligence Service for your advantage. If you happen to contain certain threats to national security, so be it."

"If I say yes... Who do I report to?"

"You can report directly to me, if you wish. Otherwise, your operation is not sanctioned. If you are captured during your... investigation, you are a private citizen under no orders and connected to no branch of government. Including your former association with the RAMC. Your records have been...edited."

John hesitated. He hadn't thought of that. For a fleeting moment, he imagined Sherlock staring at a computer screen reporting his early death. Probably due to injuries sustained in battle, as it would have had to be before they'd met. He couldn't be sure that would be enough to convince the detective...but he accepted it.

"I understand."

"There will be a drop for you at the British Museum, nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Ask to speak with the curator. He'll direct you."

"Mycroft?" Neither man had mentioned Sherlock in any of their earlier conversations. He had to ask...

"Mrs. Hudson is with him. He's even been sleeping, sort of." Mycroft realized it wouldn't be much of a comfort for John. Sherlock was still suffering from his head injury, and sleep arrived whether Sherlock wanted it or not. He was far from being back to his old self.

John gripped at the table. "That's...good," his voice cracked, a sudden dryness in his throat. John swallowed a few times. He distracted himself by staring across at Mary. She was sitting discreetly on the other side of the table, examining John's maps, and pretending to pay no attention to his side of the call.

"He hasn't left the flat in a week. He doesn't say anything about it, but he's getting restless."

"That's Sherlock Holmes for you. Bored without a case to occupy him. You have got to get him out of the flat, Mycroft. He needs stimulation. But, I'm sure his doctor told you both to keep his stress levels low. He's only just been release from the hospital...he still needs time to recover." John thought for a moment. "You may want to call Lestrade. Tell him to find something simple for him to help with, but not too simple. You know how he goes on..."

"You don't need to tell me about my own brother. I am quite familiar with him, I promise you. Remember, 9AM, Doctor Watson." Mycroft abruptly clicked off.

John set his phone on the table beside the tray.

"Who is Sherlock Holmes?" Mary quipped, not turning around from her perusal of the map.

* * *

_Sherlock stood on the roof at Saint Bart's as the taxi pulled up. He watched John step from the car, his phone out. Checking the time, Sherlock surmised. It had barely been half an hour since his doctor had stormed out, so full of concern for their landlady and the rumor of her mortal injury._

_The detective's sharp eyes easily saw the glint from the sight of a sniper rifle. Moriarty hadn't lied. There were shooters out, their aim trained on at least one of the people for whom he had shown care._

_Sherlock's throat constricted. He really didn't have a choice now. He moved up on the ledge. Moriarty's venomous comments reverberated in his ears. _

_Just before he stepped off the edge, a shot rang out._

Sherlock threw the sheets aside, sitting up. His shirt was soaked through, his breathing short and fast, and his head was throbbing.

That's not how it had happened... Was it? He remembered. John was not shot... John was whole... just... not here...

"John!?"

When the doctor's voice did not respond, Sherlock's mind supplied the usual annoyed tones of his flatmate. _What is it, you bloody git? I have been asleep for all of one hour. What could you possibly need from me?_

He could even hear the muted footsteps John would make as he passed through the sitting room on his way to the kitchen. The tired slumping of shoulders, an elbow on the table providing a brace for his arm to support his weary head.

Sherlock sighed. He looked down at his clenched hands, John's t-shirt balled up and wrinkled in his grip.

Sherlock flopped back against his mattress, his hand raking through his sweat-damp hair, the tight curls matted.. They had shaved it at the hospital for his surgery, but it was growing. His time in a coma had allowed at least a couple of inches of regrowth.

Logically, Sherlock knew that John was not there to hear him. Perhaps Mycroft had been right. Maybe he was losing control...

He tossed himself out of bed, stomping to the kitchen. John always said a good cup of tea could help him solve anything. He flipped the switch and retreated to let the kettle heat up. He sat in his usual chair, his microscope staring him in the face. He sneered at it. Useless device.

He sat back against the chair and suddenly was very aware of the empty feeling in his chest. "John, what am I to do without you?"

* * *

**A/N: This started out as three pages, then grew to eight, then twelve... At that point I admitted I had a problem, and consulted with my good friend KoraM852 (check out her stuff on DeviantArt). She helped me break it up for reader consumption.**

**I hope you enjoyed it! More to come shortly, I promise. Please don't forget to review!**


	6. Chapter Five

A/N: I am a horrible person, and I am sorry. I found a slight problem with my timeline for this plot, and I needed to fix it before I could post anything new. Luckily, I found it before I had posted anything that would affect it. I think I have filled in enough to make it better... Please read and enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (BBC), or any part of the actors, writers, cast or crew. I would love to meet them, but no owner-ship. Slavery is bad.

* * *

Chapter Five:

John sat in the stiff leather chair across from an empty desk at the Diogenes Club. He tapped the thin file against his knee impatiently. He didn't have long before his flight left, and he needed to clear up the situation with Mycroft before he departed.

"My apologies, John. Anthea will be driving you to the airport directly. Now, what was so urgent?"

John offered the folder to the politician. He let the other man leaf through the pages. "Is this accurate?"

"He was there on Saturday." John stared across the desk at the older Holmes. "I had thought with your surveillance of your brother that you would be aware of the proximity of the assassins still in London. You will see that this taken care of."

"Have you so little confidence in my motivations that you need to command me? Sherlock is my brother, John. Do remember that."

The doctor smirked, an expression of extreme doubt. John stood and moved to the door. "Yes. I remember. I also remember how your greed and flawed considerations nearly ended his life." John's hand settled on the knob. "Handle it."

"Of course." Mycroft closed the file and watched the door settle behind John. He set the file on the glowing embers in the fire behind him and waited until it was licked to flame before turning his back.

* * *

Ashton Blackmore. Sherlock pressed his fingertips to either side of his face. He knew the name. He did. It was there somewhere... He shifted papers and stacks of books in his Mind Palace, clearing layers of accumulated data, searching...

Requested file inaccessible. File path corrupted.

Sherlock's eyes popped open. _Shit._ Now his own Mind Palace was giving him error messages. His system repair was still not complete...

He closed his eyes and tried again, returning to his Mind Palace and the room containing his study of the current case. He stared at the chaos around him.

Redirect file path. Code entry requested... Resubmit query.

Searching, searching... Complete: zero failures.

Ashton Blackmore, London branch division chief of Ion Pharmaceuticals. No family, two identified acquaintances-Margot Rush, public relations executive, and Terrance Lane, general commercial shipping director. Unsubstantiated rumors available for reference to romantic attachments to one or both parties.

Gossip...? How did he get gossip stored in his Mind Palace? It was irrelevant data...

Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the file open on the table in front of him. He had only been analyzing the cold case file for an hour, but he was no closer to having a solution than he had been when Lestrade had dropped off the stack of unsolved cases.

He dropped his head back against the top of the chair, groaning his frustration. The t-shirt bunched around his neck provided a marginal cushion against the hard wood of the chair back.

He had been doing very well, by his own estimations. Yesterday, he had accurately identified Mrs. Hudson's date dress and even managed to compliment how it gave her confidence...

John would tell him he needed to apologize for his word choice. Just because he had said "pushy"... and had neglected to tell her she looked "pretty"... Sherlock rolled his eyes. Vanity.

He examined the crime scene photos again, pinching his eyelids closed when he strained his eyes too much. Blackmore had been killed in his office, hit over the back of the head by a crushing blow. He'd died instantly.

Sherlock stood and went to turn on the kettle. John always used to do this for him...make his tea. Tell him it was fine, that he would sort it out. John, who had been so much closer than a brother.

A brother...

Sherlock looked through the list of suspects and their provided alibis. Both of Blackmore's lovers were accounted for at the time of death...but the police had not questioned the individuals related to them.

Margot Rush had an older brother―Stephen Rush, a war veteran who worked at the dock yards under Terence Lane.

He pulled out his phone from the pocket of his robe and started a text to Lestrade:

_Margot Rush brother Stephen. Dock worker, equipment maintenance. Find tools, test for blood._

He sat back against the chair, unwilling to go back to the rest of the cold-case files. He wanted to curl up in his chair, but he couldn't stand to face the empty seat across from it. He would have laid on the couch, but that promised the same conflict...

Somewhere from the recesses of the refrigerator, Sherlock heard a dull chiming. A moment later, it stopped.

Sherlock stared at the appliance. He frowned, going through all of the inventory it contained in his mind. Nothing he could think of would give off such annoying sound. Though, there was that obnoxious box he had disconnected...why would it still be ringing? His eye caught on the wires trailing from the closed door.

Right. Disconnecting it involved more than removing it from the wall...

Mrs Hudson came up the stairs then, talking animatedly with her guest. Well, he supposed, technically, it would be his guest, if his doorbell had been the one ringing.

She was shown into the sitting room, her over-large red coat disguising her trim figure. Sherlock stood up, pulling John's t-shirt from over his shoulders.

He was not in the mood to receive clients.

"Sherlock, dear." Mrs. Hudson came into the kitchen taking in the state of him. A scowl passed over her face. It was gone the next instant. A micro-expression, his brain supplied. The subconscious revelation of what one was truly feeling before hiding it.

But she wasn't angry with him.

"Sherlock, go and change, dear. You have a visitor."

"Mrs. Hudson, even I think it may be too soon to start taking clients..." Sherlock moved to turn off the whistling kettle.

"Leave that," she said sternly, moving his hands away with her own wrinkled fingers. "I'll see that the young lady is offered refreshment. Go and clean yourself up."

Sherlock moved off, grumbling under his breath, "Why _should_ I get dressed? I have no need to be socially presentable. This is my home after all..."

She threw him a scolding look and he scurried to the bathroom for a quick wash.

He carefully laid John's t-shirt on the seat of the chair just inside the door, turned on the tap to test the water, and stepped beneath a tepid spray. He scrubbed the sweat clean, the water growing cooler the longer he stood under the water.

_You're being an idiot. _John's voice scolded him. _Where is this fear coming from, Sherlock?_

"I'm not afraid," Sherlock determinedly told the spray nozzle. He twisted the temperature knob until the water became scalding.

To prove his defiance, he even shaved before stepping from the water. He quickly dried off and donned the cotton robe hanging from the back of the door, the shirt returning to its former place on his shoulder.

He passed silently into his bedroom and closed the door. Sherlock stood for a moment staring at his wardrobe. Suits that actually fit... they were no longer snug against his chest as they had been. He sighed. John would not be pleased.

He hesitated before opening the door. "I'm not good with people, John," he confessed.

_Admit it if you like, Sherlock, but you have still got to go out there and talk to that woman._

He scrunched up his face and snapped the door open, his hand curled tightly into the soft cotton of the t-shirt.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson directed Mary to sit in a squat red damask armchair. It clashed horribly with the wallpaper behind it, but it was so endearing that she loved it immediately.

Mary watched the doorway for any sign that the detective was on his way. She smiled as time stretched on. John had mentioned something about his abhorrence of people. Based on what the soldier had told her of his friend, she assumed Sherlock would be pacing in his bedroom, trying to come up with some excuse to not greet her.

When he did sweep into the room―and he really did sweep, complete with a long-armed, regal gesture that implied the presence of a cape, or cloak, or large coat… but which was very definitely absent from his shoulders―he settled in his overstuffed gray leather armchair and determinedly looked at the wall over the sofa.

Mary ducked her head, attempting to look him in the face, but he only pouted and turned his head further. She thought for a moment, how to begin.

She couldn't just say that she knew John. John had been very adamant about the fact that Sherlock could never know he was real, could never guess that anyone knew who he was. She had learned that everyone involved knew the truth, but for whatever reason were keeping John's existence quiet.

"Mr. Holmes," she began, not bothering to offer her hand. He wouldn't take it if she did. "My name is Mary Morstan." His eyes flicked to her once, running from her face to the toes of her well-worn sneakers. "We have a mutual friend in Greg Lestrade, the detective inspector."

It wasn't a lie, not really. She did know Greg. He always came around the pub for a cup of coffee, sometimes he even picked up lunch. He seemed to really like the fish sandwich they had as a special on Tuesdays. Though lately, as things with his wife got worse, she saw him at the pub for dinners as well.

And yet, Sherlock's eyes cinched in doubt.

She continued, "He had mentioned that you… Well, he said that you were having a tough go of it. I heard your story. I'm sure all of London has heard it by now, actually. That horrible criminal… Moriapatty… or something…"

At her reference of the criminal, Sherlock's hand clenched around a tattered, gray t-shirt. Mary decided against commenting on the article, though she was amused at his choice of security device.

"I've heard a great deal about you, Sherlock Holmes. Mostly horrible things... The mess, the inability to keep a flatmate, the disregard for social norms, the fact you take milk in your tea-always..."

"Have you been speaking with my brother, as well? Then you can tell him that he may as well visit his invalid-brother for himself, rather than send..." he eyed her suspiciously, "spies."

Her eyebrows rose. "Mr. Holmes, I did not hear those things from your brother. I'm on no one's errand but my own, I promise you."

Sherlock sat up at that. She was lying. Well, sort of... Rather, it was less that she had been asked to visit him, and more that she had committed to it on her own on behalf of another-likely without their knowledge or consent.

She took a deliberate sip from her tea and settled the cup on its saucer.

"Journalist?"

"God forbid." She looked appalled at the idea. "I'd never dream of doing something so invasive as to pry after other people's lives for public consumption."

"That obviously doesn't mean you don't partake in the exposed personal details of public figures, or participate in social media." He nodded in the direction of the arm of the chair. Her phone was out, and at that moment blinking to life with a notification.

She followed the direction of his eyes, and then turned back to him. "I'd heard you liked puzzles. And that you don't rest until you've one sorted out. Care to guess again, Mr. Holmes?"

His fingers bounced against the arm of his own chair. She had a sweet, forgiving, and unassuming personality…desperate for truth, but not enough to hurt an innocent person. "Advocate?"

"Close. I dropped out of law school... Moral objections."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at her in question.

"I was studying for defense law, but I couldn't tolerate the idea of defending someone I knew to be guilty."

He nodded, thinking. Perhaps less forgiving than he had supposed.

From his seat, he examined her hands. Her fingernails were carefully clipped short and she wore no rings. She kept her hair short―regularly trimming the ends―and she was a woman of some style, choosing bright clothing which projected optimism. "Nurse." He settled on.

She nodded approvingly. "Taking night classes to complete my degree, yes."

"So this visit is what? A requirement for an assignment? Visit a local shut in just released from hospital care. See if he's maintaining his medicine." He didn't even try to disguise his spite. But, he could already see John's disapproving glance in his mind.

"No." Mary's head tilted slightly in curiosity. She offered a kind smile at his discomfort. "Do you always think the worst of people first?"

He rolled his eyes. "Comes with the job."

"Right. 'Consulting Detective,' is it?" She chuckled. "I have to say, that's one I've never heard of."

"The only one in the world..." Sherlock's memory of having told John in the same proud and slightly arrogant tone of voice quieted him again.

Mary saw the change come over him, the blinking withdrawal into himself. It worried her. "What is it? That is, if you don't mind my asking."

Sherlock for once denied his inherent suspicion and told her. "Everyone's been telling me I'm making it up. But not very long ago, I had a friend. A friend I did everything with. We went on cases together and caught criminals. He force-fed me tea and biscuits because I refused to eat while I was working. I probably owe him my life at least ten-times over... The first time we went on a case, we talked about my job. I said the same thing to him then." He exhaled. "He's gone now... John Watson, my doctor. And I really am lost without him."

Mary sat with him in silence for a moment. She couldn't get past how despondent he seemed. Whatever John had to do that kept him away from his friend, she hoped it would be taken care of quickly.

"Sorry, why did you come again? Was there something I was supposed to help you with?" Sherlock tucked the t-shirt in the chair beside his leg and leaned forward to focus on her.

Mary shook her head. "No," she said softly. "I came to see if there was anything I could do to for you."

Sherlock watched as she tucked her hair behind her ears, a self-conscious gesture.

"Greg would never actually say it, of course, but he is rather worried." She stood up, lifting her coat from the back of the chair. "You have more friends than you realize, Mr. Holmes."

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A/N: There we go. Whew. And now I should be able to proceed with regular updates, so long as my life doesn't bury me... I hope you enjoyed it, now don't forget to let me know what you thought. I do enjoy getting comments!


	7. Chapter Six

**A/N: I wont give excuses... Damn my timeline! Thanks to KoraM852 for continuing to beta my writing...helps me catch my wandering timeline...!  
**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock (BBC) does not belong to me. I fill the hole in my heart with fanfic writing!**

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Chapter Six:

Mary securely closed the door to 221 Baker Street behind her and descended the three short steps to street level. As she dialed the familiar number, she wondered absently if it was strange for a pub owner to have a detective inspector's personal number among her contacts.

The line rang twice before he picked up.

"Greg? It's Mary Morstan. We need to talk about Sherlock."

"Mary? Oh, sorry…from the pub, right? What about Sherlock-wait. How do you know him?"

"Just met him, actually. But John knows him." She sighed, "Let me start over. This whole situation is a bit convoluted. Anyway, John's been staying in the second flat above the pub. You can't tell anyone. He'd be furious if he knew I'd told even you."

Greg paused, waiting. "Go on."

"Well, he talks about Sherlock sometimes. It's sad, really. Like he's died or something..." Her voice grew distant, thinking of how lack-luster the soldier had been. "Anyway, I took it on myself to visit this Sherlock Holmes who he values so much. I was a little surprised by what I found."

"Why... What did you find?" Greg's question was hesitant. He had not yet been involved in Sherlock's return. It hadn't been publicized quite yet.

The detective's brother, Mycroft Holmes―an altogether infuriatingly controlled individual, with a pension for dictating government conspiracies―had followed the suggestion made by the hospital doctor. They were to reintroduce Sherlock slowly, give him time enough to adapt after the length of his absence. Mycroft had insisted that this was to mean no cases.

Mary went on. "He's lost, Greg. Like he's got no purpose in life. I suspect that his brother basically has him under house arrest. His landlady has been taking care of him, thank God, or I do believe Sherlock would have completely wasted away.

"John has told me about Sherlock's habit of experimenting, but I can't say that I saw anything like that in the flat…not like what he had described. Though, to be honest, I had been warned about the usual contents of fridge-I didn't check there.

"It's like...his motivation is gone. You've got to find him a case, Greg. Something he can help with…but not too dangerous, yeah? Can you do that?"

"Mary, that's not something that can be decided in a day. And I have no control over the cases I'm assigned. Not to mention, Sherlock doesn't always come willingly when I ask for his help." Greg sighed. "What do you say I come 'round the pub in a bit and we can have a chat. I can meet you there in about twenty minutes, and we can see what cases I've got that would be appropriate for his current state. You would know better than I, especially since I haven't seen him since he got released. And since John's there, maybe he can suggest something."

"That'd be great. Though, John's away at the moment. Not sure when he's going to be back. He kind of comes and goes all the time, and I have no idea what he's up to...guesses, I suppose. To be honest, I'm not sure if I really want to know."

"It's probably better if you don't." Greg thought over some of the details they had learned about Moriarty when they had cleared Sherlock's name. If John was getting himself involved in that part of the criminal world... The less they knew, the safer they would be.

* * *

"John Watson?"

John turned slowly. He was faced with a tall, well-built man. He had obvious training, and held himself with a discipline he rarely saw outside of military service. This must be one of Mycroft's MI-6 contacts.

"Benjamin Havers." The man did not offer his hand in greeting.

John narrowed his eyes, this man did not respect him or the help he was offering. He wondered what information Mycroft had revealed as his reason for being there.

"You're the army man on loan from London." The man sneered at John.

The soldier, though shorter than the other man, leveled him with a glare. "You can address me as my rank, Lieutenant. I don't know what you've been told about my presence here, Havers. But you had better start respecting me. Or, my assistance will vanish, along with my cheery disposition."

John's stance left no doubt of his authority. The good-natured doctor had been left on the tarmac when his plane departed London. The John Watson standing in the room now had the bearing of someone who had seen war and knew exactly what to do with it.

"Sir." Havers dropped his eyes to the ground and swallowed. "Being from London, I thought for sure you were going to be an analyst, or some other kind of desk-jockey not qualified to be in the field."

He preferred not playing the power card, but it was better than answering pointless questions. "Would you like my resume?" John prompted, a thinly veiled threat in his voice. "Or can we get on with our job?"

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Days moved slower for Sherlock. It was mid-afternoon by the time he stiffly removed himself from his bed. He could hear John rummaging around in the kitchen, possibly looking for the tin of tea he had moved to the sitting room...

Sherlock went to join him in the kitchen, only to find John was yet again not there. He closed his eyes, frowning, and swallowed at the dry feeling in his throat.

Right, he reminded himself. John was supposed to not exist. He was a fiction, made up to occupy a restless mind.

_Sod it!_

He pulled his dressing gown closed, but gave up when he found this was the tan robe...the one he had destroyed the tie from... fire-resistant fibers, what a farce!

He snapped on the kettle and pulled out the box of prepared tea bags. He stared at it disapprovingly. It wasn't the real stuff that John preferred, but to be honest he couldn't remember where he had put the canister...

It didn't matter. He could never make tea like John.

When the kettle whistled, he turned it off and drowned his tea bag in the bottom of a tall mug. He dashed a bit of milk in and didn't bother to notice the separating cream-indicative of milk beginning to sour.

He took his mug back to his bedroom, promising to sit in bed and not look at everything around the flat that still made him think of his army doctor. As he passed the bathroom door, he heard snippets of the news report coming from Mrs. Hudson's television downstairs. It almost made him drop his tea.

He spun quickly around, sloshing the liquid down his arm. He cursed and dropped the mug, shaking out his hand as he kept running. His bare feet jumped the old stairs, two and three at a time. He burst through Mrs. Hudson's front room and plopped himself in a vacant armchair in front of the television.

"Sherlock dear, it's been days! I'm so glad to see you out. Though, why are you still in your dressing robe? I suppose, I shouldn't be surprised. You always hang about in your dressing robe..."

"Shhh!" Sherlock's eyes were glued to the screen. The correspondent had a natural calm despite the chaos around him. Good actor, Sherlock surmised. He examined the lines around his eyes and deduced he had been in the region for three weeks.

_Reports from Istanbul are varied. The most consistent factor is the description of a man rumored to have helped nearly every member of this community after the explosion. The building was completely destroyed, and only a handful died from the initial blast. This man, said to have been a doctor, helped many out of the rubble, and bandaged injuries before rescue workers arrived. _

_Again, the textile plant had been a cover for human traffickers. The women who worked there had no idea. Every few months, a couple of the girls became ill and were taken to the main office. They were told that these girls were taken home, but they were never seen again._

_The information uncovered about this organization so far, suggests ties to some departments of the government. The extent of the cover-up indicates it would never have been revealed by ordinary measures. Had the building not been destroyed when it was, the world may not have known what was really going on here. _

_We have spoken with one of the women in the office at the time of the blast. She believes that all of the girls who had disappeared, had been drugged. Medics on the scene performed cursory analysis and determined something simple had been used-like a ketamine-based sedative, mixed in their tea._

Sherlock sat back and ran his hands down his face. Istanbul. What was it about Istanbul? Aruk Al Sayed, human trafficking for slavery and prostitution, minor drug operation of opiates...

Sherlock stood and walked to the door.

"Sherlock, but you haven't touched the sandwiches." He glanced back briefly. As she said, Mrs. Hudson had indeed placed a plate of finger sandwiches on the small table beside the armchair he had occupied. "Wont you stay and have something? Goodness, what has happened to your arm, young man! That looks like a pretty bad burn! Let me clean you up."

He ignored her, fussing over him and the angry red welt on his arm from where the tea had scalded him. He pried at her hands trying to break free, until he brushed against the burn and hissed through his teeth at the pain.

He stood quietly while she sprayed antiseptic on the burn and wrapped a length of gauze around his forearm. "You really must take better care of yourself, dear. He would be so cross if he knew..."

He turned suddenly, stared at her for a moment, bent and kissed her forehead before running away up the stairs again.

"Newspapers, Mrs Hudson! Get me newspapers!"

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**A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think!**


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